


Their Little Liaison

by Mipsy



Category: Chrono Trigger
Genre: Infidelity, Intoxication, Mentions of Sex, Multi, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:42:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22665709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mipsy/pseuds/Mipsy
Summary: Glenn is stuck playing guard duty for Leene and Cyrus’s bad decision making. Torn between his love – ahem – respect for Cyrus and what is right, he mulls the consequences of confronting the Knight Captain for his misdeeds.
Relationships: Cyrus/Leene (Chrono Trigger), Unfulfilled Glenn/Cyrus
Comments: 9
Kudos: 8





	Their Little Liaison

Glenn’s back was to the door, his conscience wracked with misgivings. He knew what Cyrus was doing in the Queen’s chambers. The squire knew that it was morally reprehensible to take any part in this liaison against king and country. Aye, he was guilty of aiding and abetting and would surely be hung if he were caught. Watching to make sure no one entered, turning away any visitors – nay, witnesses – at the door while the Queen “talked about how to best aide civilians caught in the crossfire of war” with the Knight Captain. It was despicable. They were using humanitarian aid as a guise for their affair.

This was wrong. This was oh so very wrong. The king would be heartbroken, the people would be devastated, and Glenn – Glenn’s soul was slowly dying. This was Cyrus. Cyrus, his beloved mentor, his best friend, his idol – someone whom he cherished each and every moment spent with – and the honest, generous, mild-mannered queen. They were the kindest people that Glenn knew.

How could this have occurred? They were both so _good_ in their own right. Glenn, in his mind, had built them up to be saints. No – they were no more saints than Glenn was a frog. Yet it was still shattering, akin to touching a portrait and expecting smooth skin, only to be grated with the texture of rough canvas. It clawed at Glenn’s brain, shattering his understanding of reality. Oh, if the Queen were a mean-hearted, vindictive woman who took pleasure in the suffering of others he would be more comfortable with this situation. How could someone who always acted with the kindest of intentions, who for all intents and purposes was always good at heart, betray her husband’s trust like this? How could Cyrus, the king’s most trusted, loyal subject go behind the king’s back? It was disloyal to the utmost.

Glenn heard the creaking of a chair, and soft, breathy praises seeping underneath the cracks in the heavy, wooden double doors. It made his legs quiver, his reproductive instincts intrigued; but it was impossible. He bit his lip and tasted a drop of salt that had fallen down his cheek. The damp liquid suspended in his eyelashes was the only outward sign of his inner turmoil.

The two people whom he loved most in the world were in the process of committing high treason. By not exposing their crime, Glenn was betraying his king; yet if he were to expose it, he would doom those he loved most in the world to certain death and break the good king’s heart.

He dropped to his knees, burying his head in his hands. He didn’t know how much longer he could go on like this. … And yet, Cyrus was the happiest Glenn had ever seen him. Even defending the innocent hadn’t brought him this peace of mind. He no longer woke up the entire guard with his fitful snoring. Everyone was, indirectly, so much the better for this. Plus Cyrus was genuinely happy. Not even Glenn could provide him that, as much as he wanted to from the very bottom of his soul. He wanted to, dearly. He wanted to do everything for Cyrus and more, he wanted to be everything that Leene was to him –

No. Nay, that was impossible.

 _‘No more impossible than a knight bedding the queen,’_ his mind pressed.

Glenn’s fists clenched as he stared into the stones of the opposing wall, trying to count how many were in the tower. _Anything_ to keep his mind off of this intrusive, recurring fantasy.

Glenn and Cyrus, living peacefully in the countryside together. Glenn and Cyrus, sharing a bed – not just a bedroom – with a wedding certificate framed above the fireplace. It was a ridiculous, impossible thought! As much as that pervasive idea replayed in his head whenever he was alone, striking him at his most vulnerable, it would never – could never – come to pass. Glenn was no more cut out to be a housewife than the Mystic’s most powerful warrior was a time-traveling ape.

Yet the fantasy persisted, torturing Glenn. For as long as Glenn had known him, Cyrus had never once expressed interest in forming a relationship another man. Why did his sex have to matter, anyway? The only thing that the queen could give Cyrus that Glenn couldn’t was children. Oh, all that was Holy! Surely – surely _that_ wouldn’t come to pass, would it? 

Everyone knew that Leene and the king slept in separate chambers. Glenn had never dared to ask why, for it was none of his business. He’d tried to close his ears to the rumourmongering that was rampant throughout the castle. He knew what gossip could do to a person. Glenn’s own neighbours had spun wild falsehoods about him as a child, unable to comprehend the little boy who never fought back. Most of them were impossible, ridiculous lies that couldn’t wander farther from the truth, yet they were perpetuated. As it stood, if Leene ever became with child the whole of the castle and half the kingdom would know of her condition even before she herself did. No matter what ludicrous theories were thrown out there, the whole affair would eventually be tracked back to its source. Glenn’s part in disguising it would be exposed. He’d be decapitated, at the very least. More importantly Cyrus, beloved _Cyrus_ would be brought to shame. Glenn fought to keep himself from shuddering as he thought of what would be done to him – far, far worse than anything even Ozzie the Great would come up with. It would hurt so much he’d wish he’d never been born and would destroy his legacy. Four hundred years in the future youths would be spitting on his unmarked grave.

Glenn inhaled, forcing himself to stop dwelling on his fears. That was the worst-case scenario. Assuredly Cyrus and Leene were practicing some sort of – ahem – _method_ to limit their fertility. If nothing else, Cyrus was too honourable to endanger Leene and Glenn in that way. There could not be any room for doubt. _Or Glenn would lose his mind to paranoia_.

Wooden furniture creaked against the stone floor, and a garbled mantra of “Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus,” forced Glenn to attention. He would – he needed – to think up a good explanation in case anyone decided to disturb their… meeting. A maid could tiptoe up the stairs any moment now, concerned by the sounds.

What would it be like for someone to walk in on them? What would that unnamed someone – for Glenn could never consider doing such a thing – witness? Would the guard captain and the queen be caught in the fits of passion, or would they have fallen into a blissful afterglow? There was a word for that condition, he was sure. He had read of it in a dirty – nay! Banish the thought – _tastefully artistic_ work of poetry. _Le Petite Mort_. That was the name exactly. It had translated to ‘the little death’. Such as strange way of describing something that he imagined to be so terribly pleasing… Yet it fit their situation precisely. If someone walked in on their _little_ liaison – surely, it could not last long before they’d tire of this suicidal folly – their souls would swiftly be stripped of their mortal coil. What would the afterlife be for those who had fallen prey to such disloyal carnality? He’d have to borrow a copy of _Inferno_ from the castle’s book repository when it was next convenient.

Footsteps reached Glenn’s ears, and he forced himself to his feet, returning to a state of attention. He would recognize those swift, light steps anywhere, even without the light clanking of metal plates. _Cyrus’s footsteps_. He steadied his breath and maintained a neutral, respectful expression. As far as anyone knew, Cyrus had not, in fact, been making the beast with two backs with the Queen – _but that wasn’t why he could feel his heart beating_.

The heavy oaken door was pushed open and Cyrus appeared. He looked no more or less dishevelled than if he had been sparring in the courtyard. “How goes you, Glenn?” His voice was warm and low, as if it were bubbling up from the pit of his stomach. Glenn observed him, eyes trying not to linger anywhere for too long. Cyrus was at ease. He was practically bleeding the bliss of post-coitus euphoria. _Not that Glenn would know_ – but he recognized it from fine literature – that was all.

“Cyrus,” tumbled out of his lips. Oh, nay! He sounded so desperate…

The man in question lifted one gloved hand to Glenn’s cheek, cupping it in his hand. The leather felt clammy and smelled vaguely of yeast. Had Leene swayed him with alcohol on purpose, or was it a choice solely of Cyrus’s own accord? It was true that for as long as Glenn had known him, Cyrus had had a taste for anything and everything fermented. “It’s going to be okay,” a questionably intoxicated Cyrus reassured.

“No,” Glenn whispered. “Cyrus,” he paused, turning his gaze to the wall. “I don’t know how much longer I can do _this_ for. This isn’t right.” He raised his hand to brush a stray hair from his eyes, attempting to awkwardly convey the message that Cyrus should let go of his face already.

Not taking the hint, Cyrus brought his hand upwards, curling a brassy, greenish strand around his finger. Glenn refused to make eye contact. This was improper. Was Cyrus taking advantage of him? Of his _innocent attraction_ – nay! – of his devout loyalty?

“Glenn,” Cyrus broke the silence. Furtively raising his eyes, Glenn noticed that Cyrus was staring at his lips. How now – what meaning was this? Glenn shrunk into the wall, physically… disconcerted.

Cyrus leaned forwards as Glenn fell back. Was this his way of showing that he was concerned for his wellbeing? In different circumstances it could be construed as… chivalrous, but instead it felt like the big, burly knight was pinning him into a corner. Then there was his breath. His mouth was so close, and it reeked of fermented barley and pickled fish.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Glenn raised his shoulders close to his body, bringing his hands up in an allaying motion.

Glenn’s assurance had the opposite effect. Instead of Cyrus accepting his choice to bow out gracefully, he pressed his body up against Glenn’s. The hand that wasn’t buried in his hair brushed – nay – _caressed_ his shoulder. What a thought! Glenn’s interpretation of the situation was certainly gratuitous. Cyrus’s movements were solely to keep him from beelining for the stairs, undoubtedly.

“Cyrus,” seriously, his lips were awkwardly close. “It’s either thine soul or this affair; thou wilt lose one or the other.”

Glenn was pulled forward, and he could almost feel Cyrus’s lips ghosting over his own. He let his body fall limp, dropping to his knees and slipping from out of his best friend’s grasp. He leapt away, tripping over his own two feet.

“Glenn!” He could feel Cyrus reaching towards him, trying to help him up. He refused to take his hand, hopping awkwardly away, trying not to trip on his own bootlaces again. He didn’t feel like Cyrus was understanding the severity of the situation. Undoubtedly his mind was still muddled by pheromones and other temptations. That, and Cyrus had been nursing the elderberries. Sober Cyrus wasn’t clumsy enough to almost kiss his best male friend. Maybe Cyrus should cut back on the alcohol; honestly, he was making a lot of bad decisions lately. 

Glenn leapt down the stairs, trying not to injure himself as he skipped two or three at a time in his haste. Maybe in the future Glenn would be braver. He’d have to talk some sense into Cyrus at some point. After all, Glenn was good with words – he was always being praised on his grasp of the English language. No one ‘appreciated Shakespeare’ as much as him. Surely his knowledge of human nature would allow him to adequately convey to Cyrus why Cyrus needed to keep his codpiece on. Now just wasn’t the right time.

Glenn tried not to loathe himself for fleeing. Logically, if he fled, he’d have the opportunity to make things right at a later date. _Was he seriously trying to rationalize his cowardice?_ He probably wouldn’t even have another chance to be alone with the Knight Captain for weeks – their meals and the knights’ bedchamber being communal. When would they have another opportunity to speak like this? Hey, there was a thought! The Denadoro Mountains. Cyrus had expressed interest in obtaining a Hero’s Badge, and Glenn had always been fascinated by the folklore surrounding the legendary Masamune. The artefacts could be useful in the ongoing war against the Mystic’s army. Surely a dangerous quest to save the kingdom was the perfect time to talk about Cyrus’s relationship problems. 


End file.
